


Senses

by SavioBriion



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:58:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavioBriion/pseuds/SavioBriion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PG, 2008. Immortals can choose not to feel their surroundings; they don't need to breathe, or to feel heat or cold, if they don't want to. And most immortals make full use of these abilities. There are two immortals, however, who revel in their five senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am neither Terry Pratchett nor Neil Gaiman. I'm just a GO nerd who loves nature.
> 
> Written to celebrate my turning sixteen.

Immortals can choose not to feel their surroundings; they don't need to breathe, or to feel heat or cold, if they don't want to. And most immortals make full use of these abilities during their brief visits to humanity. There are a couple of immortals, however, who choose to revel in the awareness created by the five senses granted to their mortal bodies. Even after six thousand years, they have never lost their sense of wonder at the miracle that is the human body.  
  
  Anthony J. Crowley opens the front door and steps outside. He pauses, taking in his surroundings. Demons aren't supposed to love; yet Crowley admits to himself that he loves the way everything looks and feels after the rain. He breathes in deeply. The air always seems to smell so fresh and clean after the rain, as if the water has washed away all the 21st century pollutants and petty human sins. Even the air looks clearer. _Almost like Eden_ , Crowley thinks, shifting his weight. He can feel the cool concrete pavement though the soles of his snakeskin shoes, and a nippy breeze picks up, causing him to shiver slightly. He could choose not to feel the cold, yet there is something so refreshing, so invigorating, about it.   
  
  The fingers of his left hand close around the wrist of his right; a chill spreads through his wrist, and he marvels at how his fingertips feel so cold and yet his wrist is still so warm. A drop of rainwater falls from the branch of an overhanging tree onto his wrist, and he brings his hand up and licks it off. Most people would think that rainwater, having the same chemical composition as ordinary tap water, would taste no different; Crowley would have been glad to tell them they were wrong. The rainwater reminds him of the sweet nectars and wines he and Aziraphale drank in Babylon, in Sumer, in Greece, Rome and olden Europe. Both of them could have materialised more amphorae if they wanted, but both angel and demon are aware that the taste will never be the same.   
  
  Crowley walks towards his gleaming black Bentley, waving a hand to rid the windshield of water droplets. He places his hand on the door handle, hissing slightly as the cool metal comes into contact with his warm skin. He pauses to admire the way tendons flex and fingers instinctively wrap around the handle and pull. Sliding into the driver's seat, he savours the way the cool leather feels against his warm back before driving off towards Soho.  
  
~*~  
  
Aziraphale gently smooths his tartan coat, enjoying the soft feel. Tilting his head back, he allows the soft rays of sunlight to caress his smiling face gently. Light glints off his golden hair, forming a sort of halo that could almost have passed for his real one. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out out a brown paper bag. He squeezes it gently, listening to the resultant crisp crackle, before opening it.  
  
The edge of the bag is sharp, and it cuts Aziraphale's thumb. Stifling a gasp, he brings his hand up, watching as a bead of bright red blood wells up slowly. The colour reminds him of the vivid flowers of Eden... It stings slightly, bringing him back to the present, and he instinctively places his thumb in his mouth, sucking lightly on the cut. The blood has an almost salty tang, rather like the seasonings used when the world was still young. When he removes his thumb, the cut is fully healed and it fades as he watches. For a moment, Aziraphale wonders what it feels like to have a scab, to watch as a wound slowly heals itself over a few days. To not be blessed with the divine gift of instantaneous healing.  
  
  He pulls out the bread from within the bag, and takes a moment to smell it. Although slightly stale by now, it still smells faintly good. He remembers the first time he tried food, savouring the taste, wondering at how his teeth instinctively chewed on the food, how his tongue pushed it to the back of his mouth, how his throat constricted, pushing it down to his stomach. And all this done almost unconsciously.  
  
  A duck swims up, quacking plaintively. Aziraphale tears off a bit of bread (too much force and the bread will be flattened, too little and nothing happens), marvelling at how almost-hidden muscles flex as he throws it into the pond.  
  
  The grass is still wet from the morning's rain; the water is soaking through the hem of his tweed trouser-legs and the soles of his sensible brown shows. His argyle socks feel rather damp, and he thinks about temporarily vanishing his body's immune system, just to find out what a cold is like. _No_ , he decides, _if I fall ill, I can't thwart Crowley._  
  
~*~  
  
  Leaves rustle in the wind, forming a pleasant background noise. The wind plays with Aziraphale's golden curls, and tugs mischievously as his coat. He can hear soft, sibilant laughter coming from behind him. Smoothing his hair, the angel turns.  
  
  "Hello, Crowley."  
  
  Crowley seats himself next to his counterpart, grinning in greeting. Raven-black, wavy hair, tousled by the wind, hangs into serpentine eyes half-hidden by designer sunglasses. The demon tugs his Armani coat tighter around himself. The small gesture doesn't escape Aziraphale.  
  
  "You could just choose not to feel it, you know," he points out, shifting against the hard bench.  Crowley raises an eyebrow.  
  
  "I know." Pause. "Your fashion sense is _atrocious_ , angel. I mean, I didn't know they even made purple tartan. And really, wearing that _monstrosity_ with beige camelhair coats should be made one of the new Sins."  
  
  Aziraphale smiles. "I was cold." Crowley shoots him an amused and yet exasperated look over the rim of his sunglasses.  
  
  Although they never talked about it much, they were grateful for the Arrangement. In addition to all the other perks, they didn't discorporate each other these days. And since both men (or rather, men-shaped beings) have grown rather fond of their human bodies - and of each other - they would much rather enjoy humanity than fight each other.  
  
  Crowley hisses slightly as the wind picks up again, a habit Aziraphale has grown to find rather endearing over the millenia. The angel is suddenly tempted to push the hair out of Crowley's eyes, and does so.  
  
  The demon's hair is surprisingly soft and warm. He hisses again as the angel's cool fingers linger before finally pulling away. Crowley stands abruptly and holds out a hand, and Aziraphale takes it. Fingers entwine, almost naturally.  
  
  "Shall we do the Ritz?"  
  
  "Of course, my dear."  
  
  The angel and the demon may have been on Earth for six thousand years, but they are really only just learning what it means to be human.  
  
~*~


End file.
